“Miss Elena!” Claire echoed.

“Miss Elena!” Emma chimed.

The name struck Adrian hard.

Not Dad.

Not Look, Daddy.

Miss Elena.

The housekeeper Teresa had hired while Adrian fled his grief across Chicago and Miami, burying himself in business as if distance could cauterize loss.

Joy soured.

It didn’t vanish. It curdled.

Because this woman had done what he couldn’t.

He had thrown money at the wound—therapists from Boston and London, trauma experts from Zurich. He’d built castles, bought ponies, chartered planes to Disney and the Bahamas.

Nothing worked.

Eight weeks with a maid—and they were singing.

Powerlessness burned.

He stepped fully into the kitchen.

“What is this?” His voice cracked through the room like a shot.

The music died instantly.

Sadie stiffened. Claire’s smile collapsed. Emma’s eyes widened.

The woman—Elena Cruz—carefully lifted Sadie down and stood upright. She didn’t bow. She didn’t retreat. She positioned herself between the girls and Adrian without making it obvious.

Adrian recognized that kind of courage.

It came from people who had already lost everything.

“They were singing,” Elena said evenly. “It helps them.”

“You were hired to clean,” Adrian snapped. “Not run a daycare.”